


Decisions

by SimplyCath



Category: GTA V
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Gen, Medically inaccurate Amnesia, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-10-05 03:50:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17317547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyCath/pseuds/SimplyCath
Summary: Michael's injury leaves Trevor with a few interesting options.(Choose Your Own Ending - more characters will be added.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Rockstar owns all, not profiting.  
> DISTRIBUTION: Get my permission first. Go ahead, ask. I'm easy. Wait...

Endings  
By: Cath

____

"F said Grove Street wasn't a thing anymore!" Michael fired two more shots off, nailing one guy in the leg, but the other ducked behind a building. "Sure feels like it's still a thing!"

"You're the only guy I know!" Trevor called back, throwing an elbow into a car window to smash it, then unlocking it. "Who whines this much when he's being shot at!" It was a dumpy soccer mom SUV, but it would get the job done. He threw the side door open.

"Maybe because I'm being SHOT AT!"

"Maybe you'd get shot at less if you got your fat ass into the car!" Said car was getting pelted with stray shots, but Trevor ignored them.

The moment Trevor felt the car dip with Michael's weight, he floored it. There was another gunshot, a ping and the truck swerved wildly as Trevor clutched his ear. "Fucking ow!" He glanced in the mirror. There was a lot of blood, but it looked like more of a graze than anything. "See, Mike!" He gestured with his bloodied hand. "I just got shot in the ear. I have a legitimate reason to complain!" Trevor huffed. 

Trevor slowed down, merging into the regular Los Santos highway traffic. "What, Mikey, cat got your tongue?"

He frowned and looked over his shoulder. "Mike?"

Michael lay unmoving, splayed across the backseat. Half his face was coated with blood.

-

Chef could usually gauge Trevor's mood by how he parked the car. Brake and slam was a good mood. Hitting the fence was kind of bad. Scaring someone, screaming at them, hitting the post and punching the door open was very bad.

Trevor clipped two people, stayed quiet, obliterated part of the fence and crashed into the house and by the time he got to the porch, was muttering to himself. This, Chef thought, was a new level of bad. He barely got out of the way before the door was kicked open. Trevor dragging in a body was nothing new, but this one was alive. "What the hell?"

"Turns out this fucker's head wasn't fat enough to stop bullets." Trevor growled out. "I owe myself ten bucks."

Chef moved quick, knocking the pizza boxes and beer bottles off the couch, allowing Trevor to lay Michael out.

The word 'hospital' sprang to the tip of Chef's tongue, but he held it back. "He's gonna need more than we've got. I'll be back."

Trevor didn't even look up as Chef grabbed the keys and headed out the door.

-

Consciousness was proving to be a slog. Every new sensation threatened to send him back under. If it wasn't the smell of stale beer and gasoline, it was the sound of shitty bluegrass and car horns blaring. Light pounded against his closed eyelids and Michael could not think of a single good reason to open them. He shifted and hissed and it felt like someone dropped a cinderblock on his face. "Ugh, fuck. What?"

"Rise and shine, asshole."

"Happened?" Michael put an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the light. There was a ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead. It was crooked. The sight made him nauseous. "What happened?"

"Some asshole shot you in the head."

"Good thing he didn't hit anything important."

"You stole my line, you dick."

"Stealing's what I do best." His whole body ached as he grabbed the arm of the couch with his free hand and forced himself into a seated position. Trevor didn't help. Michael rested his forearms on his knees. He was in too much pain to do anything about the cockroach he spotted skittered out the door. He cleared his throat, then winced. "The job go okay?"

Trevor cocked his head. "What job?"

"I mean," Michael brushed a hand through his hair. It was sticky and caked with blood, but someone had taken the time to wipe his face down. "If one of us is getting shot in the head, it usually means we were on a job."

Trevor stood up and walked to the kitchen table grabbing a beer from the case. He twisted off the cap and placed it into Michael's outstretched hand before grabbing another for himself. "You sure you should be drinking? I'd hate to upset that delicate stomach."

Michael snorted softly. "Yeah, well if I ask for pills, I doubt you'll give me aspirin. Beer seems safer." He took a pull and made a face. "Cheers." He blinked a few times. His vision wobbled, but everything clicked into its proper place eventually and he turned to glance at Trevor. "Where the hell are we?"

Trevor set his empty bottle down. "What?"

"It's hot." Michael tugged at his bloodied collar. "Not complaining, but usually we're somewhere freezing our asses off." Michael took a couple of deep breaths. There was blood in the air, but it was probably his. He took a couple more swigs of beer. Trevor was watching him the whole time. Michael stood up slowly, holding the back of the couch till his balance returned. He walked towards the screen door. "You're being weird, even for you." 

"Today's been kind of a weird day." Trevor turned, grabbing another bottle.

"I hear that." Michael rolled his shoulder. "Where's Brad?"

Trevor smashed his bottle against the table and lunged forward, barreling into Michael, slamming him into the wall, jagged glass pressed into his throat. "The fuck did you just say?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Michael held his hands up, palms out. "What the fuck, T?"

"You think that's funny?" Trevor dug the bottle a bit deeper, his eyes wide. 

"Clearly not." There was only a bit of a waver in his voice. "T, how about you put that down?"

Trevor's response was to twist, breaking the skin in a small spot. He didn't even hear Michael's hiss of pain. "Think you're real fucking cute, don't you, De Santa?"

"Townley."

Trevor took half a step back, bottle still at the ready. "The fuck did you just say?"

"What the hell was in those beers, Philips?" Michael rubbed his throat. "I-"

"You!" Trevor spat, taking another step towards him. "You are gonna shut the fuck up and tell me why the fuck you just said that."

"Because it's my name, asshole. Am I bleeding? Thanks. I needed that on top of this headache."

Trevor took another step closer. The hand holding the bottle fell to his side. He cocked his head. Michael was a better liar than he was a thief, and Michael was a damn good thief. Still, he had his tells. He'd look off, he'd get vague.

Michael was looking him straight in the eye and he still hadn't budged.

Trevor tilted his head, as if trying to see him from another angle. He spoke slowly, making his words as clear as possible. "Tell me your name right now."

A few jokes sprang to mind, but Michael wasn't inclined to have that glass buried in his jugular again. "T, it's me, it's Michael. I don't know what you've been hu-"

"Your last name!" Trevor's voice rose sharply. "Tell me your last name, or I swear-!"

"Townley, all right? Michael Townley. Any of this ring a bell?"

Trevor dropped the bottle. It shattered at his feet as doubled over, wracked with laughter. "I am not the one who got his bell rung." When the laughter subsided, Trevor straightened up. He scratched his chin. "Now what the hell do I do with you?"


	2. Past Imperfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending A - Past Imperfect

Ending A (Past Imperfect)

 

Trevor nodded. "Okay."

"T?"

"Wait here." Trevor snapped. He strode out the door, took a look at their ride and shook his head. He started down the street, trying to find a more suitable vehicle.

Michael sighed and walked into the bathroom. He flicked the switch, then had to twist the bulb around a couple of times until it flickered to pitiful life.

Townley swore. Someone had wiped the blood from his face, but his hair was caked with it and his suit was shot. Shame, it was a nice suit. He peeled off the dark grey jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. "You're fine, head wounds bleed a bunch. You're fine." He tossed the garments into the trash and looked back in the mirror. Not too bad, he could save the undershirt at least. He turned the taps and dampened his fingers, brushing them through his hair till the water stopped swirling red. 

He moved into the bedroom. There were clothes hanging neatly in the closet and then piles scattered through the room. Michael went into the closet and grabbed a dark red polo shirt that looked like it would fit him. He felt a bit more human already.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and tilted his head. The bandage was crude, but the wound felt deep. It'd probably leave a scar. Hopefully nothing too distinctive.

"We gotta move!" Trevor called out. "Now. Grab your stuff!"

"What stuff?"

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Then grab the beer. We're leaving."

A few minutes later, Michael found himself riding shotgun. It made him dizzy to stare out at the passing landmarks so he shut his eyes. "Where're we going?"

"Carcer City."

"What the hell is up in Carcer City?" Michael asked.

"A job. We had to lay low for a bit, but the heat should be off now." Trevor nodded. "We can get back to normal."

Michael grunted. When he spoke, only his mouth moved, "When's it ever normal?"

-

When Chef got back, carrying a black bag with medical goods of varying legality, he found the place empty.

The only clue he had was a scrap of paper with Trevor's handwriting. It read simply "Gone."


	3. B - Present Continuous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending B

"All right," Trevor slapped his thighs as he stood. Michael flinched at the noise. "Get in the car, Mike."

Michael took a couple of deep breaths. "Where are we going?"

Trevor's only response was to throw open the passenger side door.

-

 

Amanda De Santa rolled her eyes and checked her phone again. Nothing, of course; Michael's last message was hours old: a simple 'OK!' when she told him when they'd be ready. She looked to either side of her. Jimmy and Tracy were both engrossed in their phones.

Amanda pressed a number on her speed dial, huffing when it went straight to voice mail again. "Michael, we've been waiting here for fifteen minutes, this family lunch was your idea, so move your ass!"

"Figures." Tracy hummed as she tilted her chin down, pursing her lips into a pout before snapping off a photo. "Daddy's never late for, like, anything, but when it's family fun adventure time, he's a no-show. Can I go inside? Dr. Yaz says this much vitamin D can-"

"Yeah," Amanda gestured back and the kids went inside, Jimmy wiping the sweat from his brow as he did. Amanda took one more look out at the street, but the cars moved down the street, ignoring her. 

The moment she put her hand on the doorknob, the electric gate began grinding open. She turned to see an unfamiliar car squeezing through, and she flinched at the sound of metal on metal as the vehicle didn't even wait for it to open. 

-

Michael kept his eyes closed, but he focused on the details around him. The road had smoothed out at some point, definitely paved. The turns had gotten smoother and from the way horns were blaring, Trevor was ignoring some traffic lights. The skin under the bandage throbbed. His neck was getting cramped. God, he was tired. He sighed.

"What, Mikey, am I boring you?"

Michael snorted. "You? Boring?"

"Wake up."

"I'm up, I'm up." He rubbed his unbandaged temple.

"People who are awake usually have their eyes open."

Michael sighed. "T, I have one hell of a headache."

"Death, taxes and Michael whining. The three constants of the fucking universe!"

Despite himself, a soft chuckle bubbled out of him. "Since when do you pay taxes, T?"

"Ugh, just wake the fuck up. We're almost here."

"Almost where?"

Curiosity got the better of him and Michael immediately regretted it. He hissed out a curse and shut his eyes as the bright sun assailed his eyes. "Fuck." He swore.

Trevor turned into the familiar driveway, barely waiting for the gate to retract before pulling up to the front of the house. He rolled down Michael's window. "Good, you're here!"

"What? Who?" 

Trevor unclipped Michael's seatbelt, opened his door and shoved him out.

 

-

Amanda shouted in surprise, jumping back a step when a body got dumped at the bottom of the stairs. "Oh god, Michael!" Her head shot up, eyes narrowing in accusation.

Trevor held out a hand, two fingers up, pointing at her. "There's a whole story that goes along with this, but all you really need to know is Michael got shot in the head."

Before she could say anything, Trevor jammed on the gas, sending the car lurching forward with a squeal of tires.

Amanda took a step towards her husband, then jumped back when Trevor's car suddenly reversed, stopping half an inch before crushing Michael under the tires. 

"I want to make it clear," Trevor rushed to get the words out. "That I am NOT the one who shot him in the head!" With that, he took off again, knocking the gate off its hinges as he peeled out.

Amanda waited a moment, till she was sure Trevor was gone before crouching down next to her husband, flinching at the blood soaked bandage that covered part of his face. "Michael," she breathed.

-

Michael waited till the yelling and noise died down before deciding it was safe to open his eyes. It felt like he was staring at the sun from ten feet away. He threw his hand up, trying to block out the light, but someone pulled his arm away. "Ugh, the hell?"

"Hey, come on, look at me."

That, Michael thought, definitely didn't sound like Trevor. Curiosity alone prompted him to open his eyes. He found himself staring up at a dark haired woman. "Hi."

"You show up at our doorstep, covered in blood and that's the best you can do?" Amanda snorted. 

That voice... Michael squinted at her and eventually it clicked into place. "Mandy?"

Amanda blinked, dropping down to sit on the nearest step. "Babe," she shook her head. "You haven't called me that in ten years."

"Yeah, well, T keeps telling me I got shot in the head, but that doesn't make you any less gorgeous."

"Come on," Amanda stood and held out her hand, till he took hers. Between the two of them, they were able to get him back on his feet. She put an arm around his waist, guiding him towards the house. "Why don't you come inside, wash the blood off and tell me all about it?"

"And you say I'm the smooth talker."

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trevor is indeed a bastion of caring and compassion.
> 
> -
> 
> One down, one more to go.


	4. Ending C - Present Tense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on now, it wouldn't be right not to have Franklin get involved in this nonsense, would it?

Ending C (Present Tense)

 

"Damn," Franklin shoved the empty wrapper back into the fast food joint's bag. "That was some good shit." He heard a grumble from the back seat and met a pair of big brown eyes in the rearview mirror. "What, you think I got something for you? Be real."

Franklin rolled his eyes and pulled another burger out of the bag, unwrapping it. "Don't go telling nobody."

Chop devoured the treat before Franklin got his hand on the wheel.

Los Santos traffic was its usual nightmare, but Franklin didn't have anywhere to be, so he didn't mind waiting. He began flicking through the radio stations, trying to find something to play. There was jack shit on. He skimmed past a news station and snorted; someone thought a shooting in Los Santos was important enough to talk about. 

"A police investigation has closed down Poplar Street. It would appear that a shoot out occured earlier this afternoon between two armed men and a group who, according to reports, were wearing the colours of the GSF, a once prominent gang in the city. An officer on the scene indicated that the two-"

"Man," Franklin jammed on the gas and swung his car through the intersection, into a U-turn; he ignored the blaring horns and narrowly missed some idiot on a bike before peeling off towards Sandy Shores. "Looks like we're going for a ride, Chop."

\--

Once he pulled in front of the trailer, Franklin opened the door for Chop, then headed inside. "Man, I thought you was supposed to be retired. Only-" 

Franklin paused when Michael got up, putting the couch between them. "The hell is your problem, Dog?" He tilted his head to one side. "Yo, you look like shit, M."

Then Michael said something that cut through the desert humidity and sent a chill down Franklin's spine.

"Do I know you, Kid?"

\--

He heard commotion in the other room, but some things couldn't be rushed. Trevor flushed the toilet and wiped his hands on his pants. "Well well well, look what the cat dragged in." 

"T, we know this kid?"

"Man, what the hell is going on?"

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Blah, blah, some asshole shot Mike in the head. Now he's-"

"Hey, whoa, T." Michael kept looking between them. "You sure we can trust him?"

"Aw shit," Franklin muttered under his breath. He cleared his throat and looked over at Michael. "We cool, Dog. Shit you forget a thousand things ever day, right? How do you know I ain't one of 'em?"

"Well god damn! Now there's two of them." Trevor grabbed three beers. 

Michael smiled and sat down on the couch. "All right then. What do you know about this job we're on?"

"Job?"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Why does everyone keep sounding so surprised that we're on a job? I'm not gonna get shot in the fuckin' head just walking around, right?"

"I heard on the radio that some old dudes stirred up some shit with the Grove Street Families and you two are the oldest dudes I know." He gestured toward Michael. "Looks like I was right."

"Sharp instincts; they'll take you far." Michael took the beer from Trevor, sipping it slowly. "Nice dog."

"This here's Chop." Franklin opened the beer, watching as Michael beckoned Chop over. "M, he ain't real-" To his surprise, Chop wandered over to Michael and sat at his feet, instantly offering a paw. "Never woulda figured you for a dog guy."

"Oh come on!" Trevor crowed. "Haven't you met his wife? Mikey loves bitches."

"What wife?" Michael muttered. He set down his bottle and started scratching a spot behind the Rottweiler's ears. "Yeah, that's the stuff, huh, boy? Good dog."

Franklin got up and headed to Trevor, who leaned on the table near the beer. "T, this is messed up. What the hell are we gonna do?"

"Get him blind drunk and toss him in the desert?" He looked at Franklin. "What?"

"I ain't much for doctors, man, but dude needs a fuckin' hospital or something."

"Yeah, or something." Trevor muttered. "Shit, where are my manners?" He opened another beer and extended his hand, letting the contents spill on to the floor of the trailer. He grunted when Chop went over to investigate, then started lapping at the liquid.

"I had a dog." Michael said absently, mostly to himself. With his free hand he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I think."

Franklin shook his head at the scene. "Yo, T, maybe we should - FUCK!" He dove for cover as a bullet shattered the window he'd been standing near.

"It'd never work out between us, Kid!" Trevor rushed into his closet and pulled out a few guns, tossing one to Michael before peering through the broken window. He grinned. "Looks like those Grove Street Fuckers weren't done yet." Trevor pumped his shotgun, kicking the flimsy screen door off its hinges. "We could have settled this civilly, like gentlemen, but noooooo, you had to wander on to MY property and be rude!"

"Motherfucker, you ain't got nothin' on Grove Street!"

Trevor's eyes narrowed. "The fuck did you just call me?" Trevor switched out the shotgun for a semi automatic. "What THE FUCK did you just call me-!?" Trevor started out the door, unleashing a hail of bullets.

Franklin pulled out his piece. "Stay here, Chop." He looked towards the couch. "M, maybe you should-"

"Don't worry about me, Kid." Michael stood and went into the closet, pulling out a mean looking pistol. He turned it over in his hands and nodded. Everything in his head was a swirling fucking mess, but he had a gun, and Michael knew what to do with a gun.

Franklin thought about saying something else, but he shook his head and bolted out, taking cover behind a parked car and picking off a couple guys who'd climbed up on the roof and had pinned Trevor down.

Michael waited for a quiet moment when it seemed like everyone had to reload. He picked his own cover, away from Franklin, and took a deep breath. The pain, the confusion, everything faded away; his focus sharpened. Time seemed to slow as he stood up; three targets, four shots, three bodies. He fell into a rhythm and broke it only when he had to drop down and reload.

Something bumped into his leg and he looked down to see Chop panting up at him, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. "I thought the kid told you to-" Michael lunged forward, forcing the dog down on to its side just as a bullet went whizzing by where the dog's head had been moments ago. "Shit! Stay down, boy." Michael finished reloading and stood up. "What kind of asshole shoots a dog, huh? How about shootin' at something that shoots back!"

-

It was impossible to follow the numbers. Michael and T were shooting back and that was all that mattered. Shoot, cover, reload, it became a routine. Franklin lost track of how many times he did it. The next time he bolted up,he took aim, head darting left and right, but there were no targets. He breathed a sigh of relief. Franklin looked for Trevor, finding him partway down the street, lobbing a grenade at a fleeing green car. "Grove Street ain't a thing no more." He snorted and chose not to think about where Trevor had been hiding a grenade this entire time. 

Franklin turned the opposite way till he spotted Michael. The older man gave him a mock salute with his pistol.

His back was to the Grove Street banger leaning against a fence post, raising a weapon with a shaking hand.

"Michael!"

A blur of black fur knocked into Michael, knocking him flat, making the shot go wide.

Franklin popped off a couple rounds and the guy went down for good. He rushed over to Michael's side, dropping to a knee next to him. There was a fresh dent on the car door where he'd struck his head. "Shit, M, talk to me, dog!"

Chop lay down on Michael's other side, panting.

It felt like forever before Michael groaned and Franklin nodded. "You okay?"

"Frank," Michael coughed, then licked his lips. "The fuck are you doing here?" He pulled himself up into a sitting position and looked around. "The fuck am I doing here? Last thing I remember, T and I were-" He trailed off, "doesn't matter. Fuck, my head's killing me." His hand fell to his side and he looked down, instinctively petting the dog.

"C'mon, I'll give you a lift back to your crib." He stood up, offering a hand to Michael, who took it. Franklin looked around, only to catch a glimpse of Trevor's back as he headed into his trailer. Shrugging, Frank headed to his car, which had survived with only a couple of glancing dents and a broken back window. He brushed the glass off the seat as Michael buckled up.

As they headed back towards the city, Chop's head hanging gleefully out the broken window, Michael lowered the visor to shield his eyes from the setting sun. "Why do I feel like I've had a really long day?"

"Dog, you have no idea."

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this. This chapter was tough; turns out I can't write action beats very well.


End file.
